Pain and Prescription
by Edhla
Summary: A series of angsty, and not-so-angsty, sickfic one-shots. Written for the Sickfic Challenge.
1. Cardiac

**_This is a series of one-shot sickfics, done for the Miracle Cure Sickfic Challenge. They don't necessarily gel with the rest of the fics on my timeline, but if you can find a way for them to do so in your own head... go for it!_**

**_I'm sort of angsted out on current events in Come Forth, Lazarus, so this first one has been a little rushed. Will do better next week :)_**

* * *

The ceiling was a sort of spongy-looking grey marle, like none that Mycroft could remember ever seeing before. He tried to focus on it, frustrated that it seemed to be advancing and receding, and he couldn't quite get a clear idea of it.

There was something on his face. And, as he reached up to pull it off, he realised that there was something stinging the back of his hand, too. Things stuck to his chest...

What in God's name was going on?

Answers came more quickly than he expected, when there was a squeak of low-heeled shoes in the doorway, and a young woman swept into the room. Mycroft struggled to focus on her.

"Mr Holmes," she said, in the false cheer required of her profession. She went to the IV monitor and started to punch in numbers. "Nice to see you back with us, at last… you need to leave that on…"

Mycroft had pulled off the ventilator mask and gasped for air, a contradiction that he couldn't process just then. "What's going on?" he demanded. He'd meant for this to come out in his usual imperious way; instead, it was a raspy squeak that he'd had little to no control over the intonation of.

"You're in hospital, Mr Holmes," she told him. "You had yourself a bit of a heart attack this morning."

"I beg your _pardon_?"

"Now, don't get yourself upset-"

"I'm not upset," he protested, once again annoyed at how squeaky he sounded. The oxygen, of course, but it didn't help his case. "I have never been less upset in my life. I simply wish to know what's going on, and why I've found myself lying here, in a hospital bed, with completely unsatisfactory bedclothing, and…"

_And with no undergarments on, it appears._

Mycroft had just decided that an open-backed hospital gown was surely the most undignified item of clothing on earth. _Especially_ without undergarments.

That was going to be his first directive. If his regular clothing was not restored to him immediately, he was going to be rather upset indeed. And there were those who had learned that Mycroft Holmes was not a man to make rather upset. Heads tended to roll.

"As said, Mr Holmes, you had a heart attack."

Mycroft's head was spinning; like everything else, the nurse he was speaking to seemed to be hovering there, rather than standing. He lay back on his pillows and shut his eyes for a few seconds. "Are you quite sure?"

"Very sure. You were visiting your brother when you collapsed. You're very lucky that your brother-in-law knew exactly what to do, and that the ambulance had already arrived before you really went into distress."

_My brother-in-law…? Oh, dear Lord. I cannot wait to tell John about that._

* * *

Mycroft didn't have to wait very long for the opportunity to arise. Sherlock and John arrived twenty minutes later. Both had evidently been downstairs getting coffee from the cafeteria; if Sherlock's left sleeve wasn't enough to prove it, the styrofoam cup he held certainly was a giveaway. John hesitated in the doorway, as if unsure about whether he really should be witness to Mycroft in such a fragile state; Sherlock barged into the room and flounced down into a nearby chair, crossing his long legs and sipping his coffee in the most blatantly triumphant, _I-can-drink-this-and-you-can't _way possible.

"Not dying then after all, brother?" was his opening snark.

"My deepest apologies for that, Sherlock," Mycroft returned, grateful that his voice was returning to him, and that the room seemed far less nebulous every minute that passed. "Just when you needed the money, too, I'll wager. I'll try to do better in future."

Sherlock was his brother's sole heir, and the fact was sometimes a joke and sometimes a sore point between them. Just then, even Mycroft wasn't entirely sure which applied here. Sherlock huffed and kicked at the floor.

"Do," was his sharp response.

"_Sherlock_," John warned quietly.

"I must tell you that I'd _intended_ to spend this morning composing a new piece," Sherlock went on. "But first you had to come around to the flat and interrupt me with some nonsense about some inconsequential antique that's gone missing-"

"A Middle Kingdom mummy isn't exactly 'some inconsequential antique', Sherlock."

"And _then_ you had to go and do _this, _and I'm told you're expected to be in here for at least a week. It's very inconvenient of you."

"Feel free to go home and compose as you'd planned, Sherlock," Mycroft responded in mock-contrition, seeing- and ignoring- the look John shot Sherlock, and the slight shake of his head.

"No, no point. You've ruined my mood now," he complained. "You know I have to reach a certain emotional state to be able to compose. It'll be _weeks_ before I can get to that place again. Now, if you'll excuse me…" Sherlock plucked a sole cigarette out of his pocket and left the room, leaving John confused and more than a little disapproving in his wake. Once he had gone, John hesitantly took up his seat.

"At the risk of being patronising, how are you feeling?" he asked at last.

"Rather as if I just suffered a heart attack," was Mycroft's cross rejoinder. The last thing he needed was John Watson making concerned personal enquiries into his health.

"I can imagine."

"I doubt it."

"Okay."

A pause; Mycroft was considering whether to inform John that he had once again been mistaken for Sherlock's husband. "I was told you were of some assistance to me this morning," was what reluctantly came out of his mouth instead. "Thank you."

John's face twitched, and he glanced up at the ceiling for a moment.

"Sherlock feels guilty," Mycroft continued.

"Yes, he does."

Mycroft sighed. John had made it clear long ago that he wasn't just going to spill out all of Sherlock's private details on cue, but he really was inexcusably obtuse about it at times. "Why?" he asked. "When last I checked, even Sherlock couldn't force a myocardial infarction on somebody." He smiled wryly. "Though I sometimes suspect that he'd like that power."

John paused. "You don't remember what happened?"

"My last coherent memory is remarking to Sherlock about a colleague of mine, who's in a delicate situation that Sherlock may be able to assist with." Mycroft was picking at a stray thread on his blanket. "I doubt that's what you were referring to."

"You were… arguing with him when it happened," John ventured. "Nothing major. Just your usual Punch-and-Judy routine. I suppose he thinks that's what did it for you."

John decided not to elaborate on all the details, even though they painted a broader picture of Sherlock's reaction to his brother's state. He'd been holed up in his bedroom upstairs at the time, ostensibly blogging, actually Youtubing, and barely listening to the relentless Holmes bickering going on in the living room. Something petty, as usual. Then Sherlock's snarky, languid tones had abruptly become short and sharp. John had noted it, and had already risen to see what was wrong, when Sherlock had screamed his name up the stairs.

"And was it?" Mycroft wanted to know.

"Well, I'm not a specialist, and I haven't seen your test results, but I sincerely doubt it," was John's immediate response. "After all, if arguing with Sherlock was enough to bring on a heart attack, we'd all have died long ago. Lifestyle. Believe it or not, a diet that consists almost wholly of chocolate, booze and diet pills really doesn't do your cardiac system any favours. And neither does your not-so-secret pack-a-day habit."

"I-"

"Don't even bother to lie about it," John told him. "Your weight's been bouncing around insanely this last spring, and Sherlock's had an idea about the pills for ages. As for the smoking, neither you nor Sherlock seem to be able to smell it, but I can. And so can Mrs Hudson."

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"You know, for two geniuses, you and your brother can be complete idiots when it comes to the basics, like not being dead. Your cardiologist must be thrilled about this."

"Probably. I haven't seen them yet."

"Well, I can tell you exactly what they're going to say."

"Oh, yes?"

"Yes. A proper diet. No more dodgy pills from South America- are they even legal?"

Mycroft shrugged.

"And no more insane sugar binges. Quit smoking. Stop drinking every day. Regular exercise."

Mycroft winced. He _hated _exercise. He hated it so much that he grudged walking the short distance from his car to his office. Quitting smoking sounded like an easier and more enjoyable option, and he'd failed at that, nine times and counting.

"You don't have to run any marathons, so there's no need to look so terrified about it," John sounded amused. "Stairs instead of lifts. You know. That stuff."

"Wonderful."

John paused; then he got up, went to the doorway, leaned his head out and came back to his seat. "You care about Sherlock, right?" he suddenly asked.

"He's my brother," Mycroft conceded carefully.

John nodded. "So you care about him." This in I-thought-so tones. "So don't make him grieve for you, just 'cause you're too stubborn to eat properly, and too lazy to go for a walk every now and again. You got off lucky, Mycroft. It could have been so much worse. If you happened to be at home on your own when it happened, you might've died." He got up. "I'm going to find Sherlock. Get some rest, okay?"

"You're not my doctor, John."

"And thank God for that. Bullying just _one_ of you into not killing yourself with self-neglect is quite enough for me."

* * *

**_As you've no doubt guessed, this week's sickfic theme was: heart attack :)_**


	2. Taking the Plunge

_**A/N- **__This is an extrapolation of a scene mentioned in the very-post-Reichenbach crimefic, Four Little Bottles. A reviewer remarked on the flashback and I thought I'd write it out a bit more._

* * *

Three_ weeks after Moriarty had tried to kill him and John at the pool, he'd been sitting in the kitchen experimenting with copper wiring, which he'd been cutting with a stanley knife._

- _Ch 8 of __**Four Little Bottles**__ (see profile.)_

* * *

Pulling the blade out of the wound had been sheer instinct, but it had been a mistake.

For the first full minute, Sherlock had simply stared at the orange-handled stanley knife in his hand. His initial, irrational thought was that it had missed somehow, even though dark droplets were sliding down the blade. He'd felt the warm flood of blood spreading out from the wound and soaking his trousers well before he felt the pain.

_Stupid! Stupid!_

Dropping the knife onto the floor, he clamped both palms over the wet patch on his trousers, which _did _hurt. The knife had sliced directly through the material and he could feel the depth of the laceration under his hands. Cherry-coloured blood seeped up through the webs on his fingers, and the flow of blood did not seem to be letting up as the minutes passed. He felt it slide in sticky torrents down his thigh toward the seat of the chair and dribbling down his calves to rest in warm, sticky globs on the back of his shoe.

_Elevate it, you idiot!_

But another voice was shouting, too, loud and clear: _don't ease the pressure. Don't move._

Sherlock was on the record as later claiming that neither of his oh-so-helpful inner voices ever suggested that it might be an idea to seek medical attention for his injury. It was only when the room had started to spin that he'd grudgingly conceded that a _doctor_ was playing Minecraft upstairs on his laptop.

"John..." the first hesitant appeal had been raspy and weak. Even if John had been in the next room, he may not have heard it. In the pause that followed, he heard nothing upstairs. The only sounds in the building at all was the clink of Mrs Hudson downstairs washing the dishes.

_"John!"_

This one was a desperate scream for help. Three seconds later John's bedroom door flew open, and Sherlock heard the thud of footsteps on the stairs; John had taken them three at a time, if he'd counted right. And then he was standing there in the kitchen doorway, taking stock of the scene in front of him. One quiet, firm word came out of his mouth.

"Right."

Where was he going...? Oh- bathroom. He was back a second later with a dark blue towel. Leaning across to the bottom kitchen drawer, he pulled out a pair of scissors. "Okay. What was it?" He glanced at the knife on the floor and nodded in comprehension. "Let's have a look at what you've done..."

"Have you any idea how much these trousers cost me-?"

"Nope. And to tell you the truth, I really don't care," was John's casual response. "Bit more worried about the hole in your _skin_ right now. Anyway, _you_ cut a hole in them first, remember? You can hardly blame me for that." He slid the scissor blades across where the blade had already ripped the material, widening the gap in the fabric and pulling it back to inspect the wound. Sherlock flinched and sucked in his breath through his teeth.

"It's deep," John remarked calmly. "Still, you're not spurting blood across the ceiling, which is always good to see. Hold that there. Hard as you can take it."

He laid the towel across Sherlock's lap and ducked over to pick up the landline receiver. Cradling it between his ear and shoulder, he knelt back down on the bloodstained floor, holding the towel down on the wound so hard that Sherlock flinched.

"I know. Got to be done, sorry," was John's vague comment. "I- yes, hi, I need an ambulance, please... 221 Baker Street. Knife accident... deep lacerations to the right thigh and a lot of blood loss. Not arterial... yeah, trust me on this one, I'm a doctor with a background in trauma surgery..."

~~oo~~oo~~oo~~oo~~oo~~

Sherlock later realised that it was John's clout as a medical professional that ensured he was en route to the University hospital less than ten minutes later, and had been stitched up with impressive efficiency and care almost as soon as he was brought through the door- on a trolley, though he'd fought John to be allowed to walk. Still, even that process took time, care and a local anaesthetic. It was six o'clock before John brought him home again and settled him in his grey armchair, a blanket over his aching thigh and a cup of sweet tea at his elbow.

"Extremely inconvenient," he muttered unhappily, nursing his tea with more shakiness than he liked to admit to. "I'm sure they didn't really need to put that many stitches in..."

John had been mopping up the sticky, coagulated mess they'd left behind in the kitchen. Abruptly, he put down the mop and took a few steps into the room.

"Sherlock," he demanded, quietly but with deathly earnestness. "I've got to know. What the _bloody hell _were you thinking?"

It was a few seconds before Sherlock, still groggy and immersed in his own thoughts, was able to register what John had just said. "Sorry, what?"

"Are you completely bollocking insane? Yeah, I know you and your oversized ego don't like to ask for help, but I thought even _you_ might be more intelligent than this. You've got a flatmate upstairs, one who just happens to be a doctor, and here's you down here being a _fucking idiot _trying to stem a serious bleeding wound on your own. Do you know how close that gash came to your femoral artery? Three quarters of an inch_._ You could have _died, _Sherlock!"

There was profound silence for a few seconds. They looked at each other, both baffled, each for completely different reasons.

_I've never heard him use anything stronger than "bloody" before now. He must be quite upset... but...?_

Sherlock had never drawn such a blank on John's motivations and behaviour before. The man was generally as transparent as glass. He fidgeted for a moment. "Yes, well, I didn't," he finally remarked haughtily, as if it was an insult that anyone should suggest he react the same way to blood loss as everyone else on the planet. "I didn't even need a transfusion. Anyhow, the situation has been resolved, so I fail to see why you're so upset about it-"

"You fail to- oh, for God's _sake_." John covered his face with his hands for a few seconds, then took a deep breath. "Are you serious? Okay. Here's something for your hard-drive, Sherlock, and I don't want you to ever delete it: in the real world, people worry when their friends get hurt. And in the real world, people don't like worrying their friends when they could just _ask for help._ I know you're not very good with empathy, but come _on." _

Another short silence. Sherlock looked up at John, noting his body language, the size of his pupils.

"I've offended you," he remarked blandly. "You feel insulted because you think I don't trust you enough to ask for your help. Of course, it's clear that that's due in part to the recent... er... incident at the pool."

"And here we have another amazing deduction courtesy of Sherlock Holmes," John spat at him, confusing his patient even further. "Anyway, look, I'm not having this argument with you. I'm going upstairs for a shower. I'll give you your medication when I'm done. In the meantime, don't get up."

"John-"

"Don't get up."

Sherlock's gaze followed John as he stalked out to the corridor and stormed up the stairs, leaving his bewildered flatmate behind.

_What in God's name was that all about...?_


End file.
